The Same As It Ever Was
by CB Walters
Summary: It's the little things that make you into who you were, who you are, and who you're going to be...and those little things never really change.


The Same As It Ever Was...

1983

"No haircut!" Dean yelled irritably. He tried to escape, but his mother managed to snatch him up and sit him down on the kitchen stool. Mary tucked a lock of hair behind one ear and eyed her boy, daring him to move again. Under that dangerous stare, Dean clearly didn't have the guts to try to squirm away again, but that didn't stop him from pressing his luck: he belligerently folded his arms, arranged his face into an exaggerated pout, and yelled, with slightly less fervor, "No haircut!"

Mary turned an exasperated stare in John's direction, who, as the sole audience member, sat calmly at the kitchen table with Sammy tucked comfortably in the crook of his arm. "Did you want to offer any help?" she asked, hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised.

"Dean, hold still," John said obligatorily.

Dean straightened for about a millisecond, but then he refolded his arms with even more vigor. "No haircut!"

She rolled her eyes. "My big tough husband, the marine, can't even control his four-year-old son." Before John could respond, she turned and bent down a little so she was at Dean's eye level.

"You're getting a haircut, and that's just how it's going to be. But if you're real good and hold still, you can have some ice cream when I'm done."

Dean pondered the offer momentarily, his gaze stealing to his brother. "Can Sammy have some too?"

"Sure, but you need to hold still."

"'Kay." Dean straightened his back and looked at his mother expectantly. Mary turned a victorious eye at her husband.

"So is that how things go when I'm at work?" John asked with a shake of the head. "You bribe our boy into obedience?"

Mary carefully snipped a lock of Dean's thick blonde hair. "You know a better way?"

"Sure," John said as tufts of blond hair began to litter the floor. "You tell him to do something and then he does it, 'cuz he loves you and respects you."

Mary lowered the scissors and raised an eyebrow. "You try that in about three years and let me know how that goes for you, okay, honey?"

"Oh, it'll work. Huh, Sammy?" John said, making a face at the baby. "You just gotta show 'em who's boss."

"Man, I wish I could put money on that," Mary said under her breath, surveying her work. She ran a hand through her son's hair and lifted him off the stool. "Okay, bud, you're done. Now you look respectable again."

Dean faced her with wide, expectant eyes. "Can I have my ice cream now?"

1987

"Sammy, hold still!"

The exclamation was made with more than a little frustration as John struggled to force the toddler into a sitting position on the edge of the bathroom sink. With a screech, Sammy locked his knees, making the pursuit even more difficult.

"Sammy, I swear, if you don't sit still and let me do this, you're going to regret it!"

Sam's response was to arch his back in an attempt to slither off the sink, complete with an attending squeal of frustration. John felt very much like making a similar noise as the little boy managed to worm his way out of his father's grip and hide under the counter.

"Sam, this is ridiculous. You're almost five years old. Now get up here and let me cut your hair!"

"Nuh-uh!" Sam yelled from under the sink. "I'm only four and a half!"

John literally bit his tongue in an effort to hold back a few choice words.

"Why don't you just take him to a hair cutting place?" Dean asked dispassionately from the small bedroom area, where he was lounging on one of the two hotel beds and flipping channels.

"It's a waste of money that could be spent on food and clothes and rock salt and gas," John yelled over his shoulder. He turned his attention back to the scene at hand and shouted, "Sammy, get out of there right now, before I count to three!"

"Or what?" Sam yelled challengingly.

John took a deep breath to renew his patience, in which he thought he heard Dean mutter something about this being a bigger waste time than it was worth. He rounded the corner angrily, brandishing the pair of haircutting scissors he had bought Mary just after they were married. "We're not gonna pay for something we can do ourselves," he snapped, trying to keep his temper from boiling over. "So unless you want to offer some help, keep the commentary to yourself."

"Yes, sir," Dean said. He flicked off the TV and tossed the remote onto the other bed, sighed like an old man, and trudged toward the bathroom.

"What are you doing?"

"Offering some help," Dean replied. He crouched down in front of the sink so he could see Sam. John leaned over, wanting to see, but not at the risk of stopping Dean from working whatever miracle he was about to work.

"Sammy?" Dean said. "You're making Daddy pretty angry."

"So?" Sam shouted defiantly. John ground his teeth but kept his mouth shut. _Note to self: work rebellious streak out of youngest son_.

"If you make Daddy angry, no one is gonna be happy, huh, Sammy?"

"I don't want a haircut!"

Dean paused. "Well, I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but it's gonna happen one way or the other. But listen, if you're real good, I'll read you a story tonight. Anything you want."

There was a pause. "Anything?"

John saw Dean wince. He could guess what was going to be Sam's choice.

"Yeah," Dean said, as if it pained him. "Anything."

"Green Eggs and Ham?"

A pause. "Yes."

"With voices?"

Dean sighed. "Yes, Sam."

"And can I say the 'Sam I Am's'?"

"Yes, Sam. Now, get out of there so Dad doesn't get any angrier."

A head of thick dark hair emerged slowly from under the counter. Sam approached John hesitantly, and then wrapped an arm around his leg. "Sorry, Daddy."

John turned his face heavenward and sighed. "It's okay, Sammy. Let's just get this over with." John lifted the little boy onto the counter and pulled the scissors out. Just before he leaned forward to cut the first strand, he paused, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "You know, Dean…Sam drives a lot tougher bargain than you did."

1992

"I'll be back in a few days," John said, hefting the duffel onto his shoulder. "I left a set of exercises on the notepad in the kitchen. And I'll know if you've practiced when I get back, okay, Sam? So don't blow it off."

For a second, Sam looked like he wanted to argue, but he bit his lip and changed his mind as Bobby came through the open front door. "Yes, sir."

Bobby glanced at John and then Sam, and cleared his throat. "We're all packed up. Guess I'll see you boys later."

John followed Bobby out the door and was halfway down the walk before he remembered. "Oh, and Dean? Give yourself and your brother a haircut. Make yours a little cleaner and his a little messier than last time, got it?"

Dean's obligatory "yessir" was overshadowed by Sam's curious "why?"

John sighed at the sound of that most dreaded question, wondering why Sam could never just follow an order.

"Just…just do it," he said tiredly.

Sam looked a little dejected. "Yes, sir."

"Bye, boys."

A few minutes later, John was pulling away from the curb as Bobby perused the collection of cassette tapes he kept in a shoebox. "You know," Bobby offered off-handedly, "I'm pretty handy with a set of scissors. I could just give the boys a haircut when we get back."

John chuckled. "Besides the fact that I doubt your skills with a set of scissors, Dean's perfectly capable. He's been doin' it for years."

"Oh." There was a pause. Bobby cleared his throat, then licked his lips nervously. "Listen, John, I don't know how to say this, but I gotta ask…"

John tensed, a weight settling in the pit of his stomach, wondering if Bobby would notice the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel as his mind flashed back to the way Bill Harvelle's eyes looked as he died…

"What?" John asked guardedly.

But if anything could be said for Bobby, it was that he wasn't stupid. He caught the look, backpedaled quickly, and clearly said the first thing that came to mind. "Why'd you ask Dean to cut Sam's hair messier?"

John let out a breath, relieved to be treading on safer ground. "Sammy still looks like a little kid, still got baby fat. Combine that with the fact that all he wears is Dean's old, ripped up hand-me-downs, and those big sad eyes, and then add in the fact that it looks like he gets homemade haircuts…people are perceptive, especially moms. They can spot a kid raised by a penniless single dad from a mile away, and they always pity him." John chuckled. "And he's gotten good at hamming it up, ever since he realized he can usually get a cookie or something out of it. I've used him to get all kinds of information out of grieving parents." John shrugged unashamedly. "It just makes things easier."

"And why not have Dean do the same thing?"

John laughed quietly. "Nah. He's too cocky. Always trying to act too old for his age. And besides, he's starting to fill out now, getting taller. In the next few years, he's going to start coming with me to talk to people. He's gotta learn how to impersonate a cop or FBI agent." There was another shrug. "He looks older with his hair short."

Bobby shook his head sadly.

"You got something to say?" John bristled instantly, always defensive about the way he raised his boys.

"No," Bobby said. "It's just that most dads don't pick their kids' haircuts with the intention that they'll be able to use it to coerce information out of people."

John concentrated on the road, and for a moment, Bobby thought the conversation was over. He almost didn't catch John's final comment over the rumble of the Impala eating road.

"Most kids don't lose the parent that _should_ be making that decision to a fire demon."

1999

"You can't control me! I'm not a kid!"

Distracted from the obits, Dean looked up. The shouting seemed to be coming from Sammy's bedroom on the floor above.

"Yes, you are! You're my kid, and you're going to do what I say!"

That was the lower rumble of his father's voice, still clearly audible. Yeah, definitely the floor above. Dean stood stiffly, his ribs still achy from being thrown into that wall last week, and wondered if they were going to move the fight downstairs or if he'd have to go all the way up to Sam's room to break it up.

"I'm almost seventeen! I should be allowed to make my own decisions!"

Dean sighed. Looked like he'd have to go up after all. He moved slowly, climbing the stairs one at a time, gingerly, trying not to breathe too deeply.

Sam's rebellious streak was beginning to get very annoying.

"This isn't some arbitrary decision, Sam! This is important, okay? Don't you want to find the thing that killed your mom?"

Dean reached the landing, wondering what the argument was about this time. They pretty much all sounded the same.

His musings distracted him just enough that he managed to miss Sam's comeback, but he caught his father's response loud and clear. He was pretty sure that old deaf Mr. Cummings next door _also_ caught the response loud and clear.

"Don't you _dare_ cuss at me! I'm your father!"

Dean made it into the room just in time to step between Sam and Dad. Sam had skipped ahead to the next part of the argument early, the part where he got in Dad's face and ranted that if Dad wanted respect he should have been a hunter _and _a father.

"Oh, now all of the sudden you want to be a father, you—,"

And cue Dean's role.

"Sam, back off!" he shouted, putting one hand on Sam's shoulder, forcing the two to separate. "Stop it! What's going on?"

"_He_—," and it sounded more like an insult than a pronoun, "—is trying to control my life again!"

"Don't be so dramatic, Sam! I told you to get a haircut, that's it, and you have to turn it into World War III, just like everything else."

"Well, maybe," Sam said, taking a step forward despite Dean's presence between them, "I don't want to get a haircut. Did you ever think about that?"

Dad literally growled somewhere in the back of his throat. His voice softened, and he was no longer yelling. That was when he was the scariest. "That's not the point. No way is anyone going to believe you're a cop with hair like that. You look like a teenager trying to prove his independence, not an adult with a career."

"Newsflash, Dad," Sam said sarcastically, "I _am _a teenager trying to prove my independence. That's what 16-year-old kids do. They don't sleep with knives under their pillows, they don't know the best way to kill a shape-shifter, and they don't impersonate cops!"

Dean stepped toward Sam in the hope that the movement would encourage Sam to step back, just in case Dad was about to explode. Luckily, Dad stepped back, either too exhausted or too frustrated to continue the argument.

"Dean, do something with your brother. I'll be back." He turned his back and slammed Sam's bedroom door behind him. _Translation:_ _do what I can't while I get wasted._

"Sam, come on dude, you gotta pick your fights, ya know? I mean, is it really that big of a deal?"

Sam's face flashed betrayal. Dean sighed. He hated being in the middle. And he was always, always in the middle.

"Sam…" But Dean couldn't really think of anything to say. In an attempt to cover the awkward pause, he broke the Winchester rule and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam stared at his hand like it was something poisonous.

"Get off me!" Sam shouted, and pushed Dean back into the wall, hard enough to leave a Dean-sized dent.

Pain exploded from his already-tender ribs, and before he could control it, his knees crumpled and he wrapped his arms around his middle, grimacing to keep from crying out. His eyes squeezed shut tight, but he could still sense Sam bending down, trying to help him up, trying to offer an apology.

Dean leaned against the wall and caught his breath. "Sam," he said, his patience nearly gone, "just…cut your hair."

2005

"Sam, are you _still _studying?" Jessica said as she dumped her bag on the couch and took off her jacket.

He glanced up from the table, where he had been hunched over a gigantic textbook. He rubbed a hand across his face, but then he stood and pulled her into a hug.

"I've only got a few days before the interview. I just…I need to be ready. This could be big. For both of us."

"You've been looking over this stuff for weeks. You'll be fine, Sam." She pulled back a little and looked up at him. "You look tired. Are you okay?"

"Uh…sure. Just haven't been sleeping well lately. Must be nerves." He smiled wanly, and she knew he was lying. It was a little hard to miss the times he woke up screaming, particularly when it was her name he called out. But she let it go and flashed him a smile to show it was okay: he finally seemed to relax a little. Then her mouth pulled down and her nose crinkled a little.

"What?" he asked.

"Ummm," she said. "What's that smell?"

He sniffed the air, clearly confused. "Uh, I don't…aw, man!"

She followed him into the kitchen, where he quickly pulled an overflowing pot off the stove. She picked a spoon up off the counter and poked at the grayish, congealed mass inside. "Sam, what is this?"

He wrinkled his nose at the clump. "A mess."

She couldn't help but smile. "What was it before it was a mess?"

"Fettuccine alfredo?" he flashed an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I wanted to make you dinner."

She stood up on tiptoes and kissed him softly. "That's really sweet. Thank you."

"And now you're going to tell me what we're going to eat for real, right?"

"How about sandwiches?"

He grinned, scratching at the back of his head. "So what have we got going on this weekend?"

She pulled out some deli ham and the bread. "Well, I've got work tomorrow, and I was thinking we could grab dinner when you finish with your class. And then the Halloween party Saturday. What about you?"

"Work tomorrow, then class…and not the Halloween party on Saturday."

"Good try, Sam, but you're going, and you're going to enjoy it too."

He rolled his eyes but didn't protest further. "And then there's the interview Monday."

She licked a bit of mustard off her finger and shook back her hair. "So when are you going to go get your hair cut? Saturday morning?"

His head whipped up. "What?"

Something about his eyes made her feel like she had to explain. "Aren't you going to get your haircut? For the interview?"

"No," he said bluntly.

Feeling a little stung, she put down the mustard bottle. "Why not?"

He looked up at her, and he had the 'Look' on his face, the one she had come to associate with his family. Something in his eyes had died a little and the corners of his mouth were pulling down. She rarely figured out what triggered it. It was usually little things, like cheap burger joints and muscle cars, or the time she had suggested he buy a leather jacket, or the day Led Zeppelin came on the radio and she admitted to knowing all the words to "Stairway to Heaven."

"I'm sorry, Jess, I didn't mean to snap. I just like my hair the way it is, that's all." He offered a lukewarm smile that didn't reach his eyes.

She wanted so badly to push, to ask him about his family. She had so many theories, so many questions. Maybe they were fugitives, or international spies, or part of the witness protection program. And where had the scars come from that ran from his shoulder to his waist, and why did he hide piles of salt under the rugs and the windowsills? And would she ever meet Dean, the brother he had mentioned once, accidentally, at three in the morning, when they had both had a little too much to drink?

But she didn't ask any questions, didn't push, didn't try to investigate. She couldn't stand the sadness in his eyes, the pain it would clearly cost him to dredge up those thoughts. So instead she returned the smile and handed him his sandwich. "I like it the way it is, too. You definitely shouldn't cut it."

He exhaled slowly, and she could hear his relief. "Thanks."

"But, Sam," she grinned. "You will at least _comb_ your hair for the interview, right?"

A/N...okay so this is my first fanfic, ever. I'd love to get some feedback, and it doesn't all have to be nice...I'd really like to see where I can improve. Of course, hearing some nice things would be great too. :) Thanks!


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